Killer Instinct (36 page)

“Baby, it’s not mine.”

She twisted her head to look up at me. Her face was all red and blotchy. “Please don’t lie to me. Don’t tell me you’re carrying someone else’s condom around.”

“I didn’t put it there, Kate. Believe me. It’s not mine.”

She bowed her head. Pushed my hands away. “How can you do this?” she said. “How can you
do
this?”

Furious now, I grabbed my BlackBerry from my suitcoat pocket and hurled it toward her. It landed on the pillow next to her head. “There you go,” I shouted. “That’s my personal scheduler. Go ahead, look through it. Maybe you can figure out when the hell I’d even have
time
to have an affair, huh? Huh?”

She stared at me, taken aback.

“Let’s see,” I said. “Ah, yes. How about sneaking in some quickie nookie between my eight forty-five supply-chain management call and the nine o’clock long-term-strategy staff meeting? Slip in a little horizontal mamba between the ten o’clock end of the staff meeting and the ten-fifteen sales call with Detwiler? Some coochie in the two minutes between the meeting with the systems integrators at the Briefing Center and the forecast review session?”

“Jason.”

“Or maybe a minute and a half of the funky monkey between the eleven forty-five cross-functional concall and the twelve-fifteen meeting with the order admin, then a quick game of hide-the-salami in the fifteen seconds I have to get to a lunch meeting with the district managers? Kate, do you realize how
insane
this is? Even if I wanted to, which I don’t, I don’t have a goddamned free
second
! And for you to accuse me of something like this just pisses me off. I can’t believe it.”

“He told me, you know. He told me he was worried for us.”

“Who?”

“Kurt. He said—said he probably shouldn’t say anything—wasn’t his business, he said—but he wondered if maybe you were having an affair.” Her words were muffled, and I had to listen hard to understand.

“Kurt,” I said. “
Kurt
said this. When did he say this to you?”

“I don’t know. A couple of weeks ago.”

“Don’t you understand what he’s doing? That just fits right in to the pattern of everything else.”

She glanced at me, shaking her head, a disgusted look on her face. “This isn’t about Kurt, whatever his flaws,” she said. “We have bigger problems than Kurt.”

“No, Kate. You don’t know about Kurt. You don’t know what he did.”

“You told me.”

“No,” I said. “There’s more.”

I told her everything now.

Her disbelief slowly melted. Maybe it’s more accurate to say it turned into disbelief of another kind.

“Are you leaving anything out?”

“Nothing.”

“Jason, you’ve got to talk to the police. No anonymous calls. Openly. You have nothing to hide. Tell them everything you know. Tell them what you told me.”

“He’ll find out.”

“Come
on,
Jason.”

“He knows people all over the place. In the state police, everywhere. He’ll find out. He’s got everything wired.” I paused. “And—he threatened me. He said he’ll do something to you.”

“He wouldn’t. He likes me.”

“We were friends, too, him and me—remember? But he’s totally ruthless. He’ll do anything to protect himself.”

“That’s why you’ve got to stop him. You can do it. I know you can. Because you
have
to.”

We were both quiet for a few seconds. She looked at me. “Do you hear a funny sound?”

I smiled. “No.”

“It sounds like a…maraca. Not right now, but I keep hearing something.”

“I don’t hear anything. Bathroom fan, maybe?”

“The bathroom fan’s not on. Maybe I’m losing my mind. But I want you to call the police. He’s got to be arrested.”

I fried some eggs, toasted an English muffin, brought a breakfast tray up to her. Then I went to my study and called Franny and filled her in.

“The detective called again,” she said. “Sergeant Kenyon. He asked for your cell number, but I wouldn’t give it to him. You’d better call him back.”

“I will.”

As I spoke, I was tapping away on my laptop. I pulled up that Special Forces website I’d bookmarked and went to the “Guestbook” where Trevor had posted his question about Kurt. No other replies had gone up.

“I’ll be in soon,” I told Franny, and hung up.

I signed on to AOL, the account I hardly ever used. Six e-mails in the in-box. Five of them were spam.

One was from a Hotmail address. Scolaro. The guy who’d replied to Trevor, said he knew something about Kurt.

I opened it.

I don’t know this guy Semko personally. One of my SF brothers does and I asked him. He said Semko got a DD for fragging a team member.

DD, I remembered, meant “dishonorable discharge.” I hit reply and typed:

Thanks.

Where can I get proof of his DD?

I hit
SEND
, and was about to sign off, when the little blue AOL triangle started bouncing. New mail.

It was from Scolaro.

If he got DD he was court-martialed. Army court documents are public record. Go to the Army Court of Criminal Appeals website. They’re all available online.

Quickly I typed a reply:

What’s your tel #? I’d like to give you a call.

I waited a minute. E-mail is strange—sometimes it goes through in a couple of seconds; other times the big pipeline, wherever it is, gets clogged, and mail won’t get through for an hour.

Or maybe he just didn’t want to answer.

While I waited, I did a Google search for the Army Court of Criminal Appeals. The browser cranked and cranked and eventually popped up with a warning box.

Access Restricted to Military Active Duty, Reserve or Veterans. Please enter valid military ID or Veterans Identification card number.

I couldn’t get in.

I sat there for a few moments, thinking. Who did I know who might have a military ID number?

I picked up the phone and called Cal Taylor. “Cal,” I said, “it’s Jason Steadman.”

A long, long silence. A TV blared in the background, some game show. “Yeah,” he said at last.

“I need your help,” I said.

“You’re kidding me.”

I entered Cal’s ID number, and the website opened.

I scanned it. I didn’t know what that guy Scolaro was talking about. I didn’t see any court documents. On the menu bar on the left, one of the items was “Published Army Opinions,” and I clicked on “By Name.”

A list came right up. Each line began with a last name. Then ARMY and a seven- or eight-digit number—a court case number, maybe?—and the “United States
v.
” and the rank and name of a soldier. Staff Sergeant Smith or Colonel Jones or whatever.

The names were listed in alphabetical order. I scrolled down, so fast that the list became a blur, then slowed down a bit.

And came to SEMKO.

“United States vs. Sergeant KURT L. SEMKO.”

My heart raced.

The blue AOL triangle was bouncing. Another e-mail from Scolaro. I double-clicked on it.

No way. Not talking about Semko. Said too much already. I got a wife and kids. Sorry. You’re on your own.

I heard Kate’s voice from down the hall. “Jason, there’s that maraca sound again.”

“Okay,” I yelled back. “Be there in a minute.”

A PDF document opened.

UNITED STATES ARMY COURT OF CRIMINAL APPEALS UNITED STATES, Appellee

v.

Sergeant First Class KURT M. SEMKO

United States Army Special Forces, Appellant

A lot of names and numbers and legalese. Then:

A general court-martial composed of officer and enlisted members convicted appellant, contrary to his pleas, of signing a false official document with intent to deceive (three specifications), one specification of false swearing, and three specifications of obstruction of justice. Appellant pled not guilty to and was acquitted of premeditated murder…

I skimmed it quickly. Kurt had been charged with the murder of a fellow soldier—a “fragging,” they called it—named Sergeant First Class James F. Donadio. Donadio was described as “formerly a close friend of the appellant.” A “protégé,” some of Kurt’s teammates testified. Until Donadio had reported to their captain that Kurt had been stealing war trophies—“retained illegal weapons”—which was against regulations.

Then Kurt had turned on his former protégé. It was all there, under “Background and Facts.” Donadio had found a cartridge jammed into the barrel of his M4 rifle. The weapon would have blown up if he hadn’t noticed it. Then a “flash-bang” grenade, normally used to clear a room, had been rigged up to Donadio’s bed so it exploded one night. Flash-bang grenades made a loud explosion but caused no injuries.

Another time, a jumpmaster noticed that Donadio’s static-line parachute had been sabotaged. If he hadn’t realized that the pack closing loop had been switched with another line, Donadio would have been badly hurt.

Pranks, I guess you’d say.

Kurt was suspected of all these acts, but there was no evidence. Then one morning, Donadio had opened the door to the Ground Mobility Vehicle he always drove and maintained, and an M-67 fragmentation grenade exploded.

Donadio was killed. No grenade was found to be missing from Kurt’s gear, but one was missing from the team’s general weapons locker. Everyone on the team had the combination.

All but one of the twelve team members testified against Kurt. But again, the evidence was lacking. The defense argued that Kurt Semko was a highly decorated, much-lauded soldier of documented bravery in combat. He’d won three Purple Hearts.

Kurt was found not guilty of premeditated murder, but found guilty of making false statements to the criminal investigator. He was given a dishonorable discharge but not sentenced to any time.

So that story he’d told about confronting his commanding officer over a “suicide mission” that killed Jimmy Donadio—he’d made it up. The truth was simpler. He’d fragged a protégé who’d turned against him.

The words on the laptop began to swim. I felt a little light-headed.

“Jason,” Kate called out.

I was stunned but not surprised. It all made perfect sense

But this was exactly what I needed. The state police would see who they were dealing with. There’d be no doubt that Kurt was capable of disabling Trevor’s car, killing him and Gleason. No doubt at all.

I hit
PRINT
. Printed five copies.

Then went down the hall to the bedroom to see what Kate wanted. As I neared the bedroom, Kate began screaming.

51

I ran into the bedroom.

Kate was cowering on the bed, screaming, her hands flailing in the air, gesturing toward the bathroom.

I turned my gaze to the bathroom and saw it.

Undulating, slithering along the baseboard, moving slowly from the bathroom to the bedroom. It must have been six feet long and as thick as my arm. Its scales were large and coarse, yet intricately patterned: black and beige and brown and white with a white diamond pattern. It was rattling and hissing.

I’d never seen a rattlesnake outside the movies, but I knew right away what it was.

Kate screamed.

“It’s a rattlesnake,” I said.

“Oh, God, Jason, you have to kill it,” she shouted. “Get a shovel or something.”

“That’s when they bite you. When you try to kill them.”

“Get it
out
of here! Oh, my
God
!”

“I don’t want to go near the thing,” I said. I was maybe twenty feet away. Frozen in place, right where I stood. “When these guys strike, they can move like a hundred, two hundred miles an hour or something.”

“Jason, kill it!”

“Kate,” I said. “Quiet. Keep your voice down.” The snake had stopped slithering and had begun to double back on itself, forming a loose coil. “Shit. That’s what they do when they strike.” I backed away slowly.

Kate was pulling the sheets and blankets up over her head. “
Get—it—out
of here!” she screamed from under the bedclothes, her voice muffled.

“Kate, shut up!”

The snake was rearing up now, its wide head moving slowly back and forth, two or three feet in the air, exposing a gray belly. It was flicking a long, forked black tongue and rattling its tail. It sounded like an old bathroom ventilation fan, getting faster, louder.

“Don’t make a sound,” I said. “It’s scared. When they’re scared, they attack.”

“
It’s
scared?
It’s
scared?”

“Quiet. Now, I want you to get out of bed.”

“No!”

“Come on. Out of bed. Quietly. I want you to get out of here, down to my study, and I’ll call someone.”

“Who?”

“Well,” I said. “Not Kurt.”

From my study I called a company called AAAA Animal Control and Removal Service. A professorial-looking guy showed up half an hour later, carrying a long pair of broad-jawed tongs, a pair of elbow-length gloves, and a flat white cardboard carton, open at both ends, that said
SNAKE GUARD
on it. When he entered our bedroom, he let out a low whistle.